


To live a lie is to not really live at all (But who am I to judge?)

by ojangel



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Friends, Drunkenness, Eddie Kaspbrak is a Mess, Friends to Lovers, Gryffindor Eddie Kaspbrak, M/M, Minor Mike Hanlon/Stanley Uris, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Pining, Ravenclaw Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier Flirts, Richie Tozier is a Little Shit, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Secret Crush, Soft Eddie Kaspbrak, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, Teenage Losers Club (IT), Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24163648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ojangel/pseuds/ojangel
Summary: Rolling his eyes, Eddie moves to pull something from his robe pocket. Richie watches warily. "What're you gonna do?""I'm going to melt your glasses," says Eddie, deadpan. Richie blinks, as if just noticing the world is more blurry than usual. Eddie fully reveals the glasses from his pocket— he'd picked them up when he came in— and directs the tip of his wand to one of the lenses. A spell caresses the area behind his lips, waiting to be said aloud.(Hogwarts!AU)
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 46





	1. magic or something

_There are darknesses in life and there are lights,_

_and you are one of the lights, the light of all lights._

\- Bram Stoker

Eddie stares at the boy on his bed. There's a line of drool running down Richie's chin, and the place where his cheek hits the pillow is all smushed up.

The black of Richie's uniform looks incredibly out of place in the Gryffindor dorm— even his hair seemingly too dark inside a room of red and gold. Eddie grins at that, because the last word he'd use to describe Richie was _dark_. If anyone could light up a funeral, it'd be him, with his jokes and Voices. Eddie would not dare say so out loud, though. It sounds just a bit too much like a compliment, and Richie can get so ... so narcissistic, almost, and not in a charming way.

"I d-didn't know we had a gu-guh-guest," says Bill from somewhere behind him, sounding amused.

"Neither did I." Eddie turns his head slightly so he can look at Bill. "You didn't give him the password again, did you?"

It'd become a game for Richie to sneak into Gryffindor tower back in first-year. Sometimes he would drag Mike or Stan along, but for the most part, he'd make the journey alone. Eddie would always find him curled up by the fireplace, or fast asleep in his bed by the end of the day. It was actually quite impressive— in third-year, it had only taken him two hours into the new term to get the password. No one ever fessed up to giving it to him, but Eddie has a suspicion it'd been Georgie.

Georgie is a Hufflepuff, but Bill always gives him the Gryffindor passwords in case of an emergency. It's one of their rules. Richie, on the other hand, hasn't got a good reason to be sneaking into Gryffindor tower, what with being a Ravenclaw. Still ... no one has ever told him to go.

"I h-haven't se-seen him s-s-sin... since l-last neh-night."

"Must have been Bev, then," Eddie murmurs to himself. "Do you want to wake him or shall I?"

Bill laughs. The sound causes a frown-line to form between Eddie's brows. "The last ta-time I tried w-waking up R-R-Richie he pulled me into bed with him. He meh-made u-us cuh-cuddle for almost an h-hour."

_Sounds like mercy_ , Eddie almost says.

"Well, one of has to. He'll miss dinner, otherwise."

"A-and th-that would be the eh-end of the w-w-world, wouldn't i-i-it, Eddie?" teases Bill, although the effect is mostly lost due to his stutter.

At some point in their fourth year, Bill had come to the terrible conclusion that Eddie was crushing on Richie. It'd been a ridiculous notion then, and it still is now. Eddie would never like Richie because he doesn't even ... Eddie has never really liked anyone, is all. Plus— gross. Richie has been in his life so long, it'd be strange to change up their dynamic now. He's the last guy in the _world_ that Eddie would want to kiss. Well, maybe not in the _whole_ world. Eddie wouldn't want to kiss Bowers, or Professor Dumbledore, either.

None of these arguments has convinced Bill. Fortunately, Richie hasn't caught wind of the idea. Eddie would be teased mercilessly if he does, even though it's. Not. Fucking. True.

"Shut up, idiot," says Eddie, a beat too late. Bill, the bastard, just smirks at him. "Look, you go meet the others and I'll wake the beast. Don't bother waiting for us."

Bill sends him a salute in response, disappearing down the dormitory steps backwards. Eddie shakes his head, smiling, and looks back to the bed. Richie's snores have quieted down, which means he will start waking up himself if Eddie were to leave him to it for a few minutes. He won't, though, cause his stomach is beginning to rumble.

"Rise and shine, Tozier!"

Richie groans, loud and annoyed. Eddie feels a giggle form at the back of his throat and barely manages to repress it. "Time to get up!"

"Fuck you, Eds. Just lemme die here," says Richie, muffled, as he rolls onto his back and glares blearily up at Eddie.

Rolling his eyes, Eddie moves to pull something from his robe pocket. Richie watches warily. "What're you gonna do?"

"I'm going to melt your glasses," says Eddie, deadpan. Richie blinks, as if just noticing the world is more blurry than usual. Eddie fully reveals the glasses from his pocket— he'd picked them up when he came in— and directs the tip of his wand to one of the lenses. A spell caresses the area behind his lips, waiting to be said aloud.

"Your threats are a real turn-on." Richie shuffles around, getting comfortable, before feinting sleep. "Come to bed with me, Eddie Spaghetti."

"I'd rather bathe in my own vomit." Then, "And don't call me that!"

Richie tugs at the corner of Eddie's robes, his eyes still closed. It's almost cute. "Stop it! If you're not coming to dinner, I'll go alone. I'm starving."

" _Baby_ ," singsongs Richie. He pulls harder, and suddenly Eddie has fallen onto the mattress— mostly from surprise, not because Richie has any sort of upper-body strength. "Your bed is so much softer than mine." He wraps a casual arm around Eddie's slim waist, fingers curling snugly at his hip.

It's uncomfortable, honestly. The bed is not made for two, and Eddie's uniform gets tangled up in the sheets as he tries to shimmy into a better position. He moves down a little so his head is closer to Richie's chest, which at least gives them both more room. Eddie lets his eyes drop closed, momentarily appreciating the warmth that Richie's thin body naturally gives off. He pretends that's the only reason he's allowing this to happen at all. "We can lay down for a few minutes, okay? Just a few."

"Or," proposes Richie. "we could take a nap and then eat at the kitchens, later."

"Fuck you, Tozier," Eddie says, trying to get up again. Richie's grip on him tightens, so he relents. "I'm serious, okay? We'll only stay for a few minutes."

Richie hums and noses at the top of Eddie's head. "Alrighty, but only 'cause you're so cute." He pauses. "Even if I can't actually, you know, _see_ you."

That giggle from earlier escapes unexpectedly, high-pitched and annoyingly girly sounding. Eddie's face feels very, very hot when Richie moves back a little to squint down at him. There's a rare softness in Richie's expression that makes him want to melt into the blankets and never come back. "Holy shit, that was the most adorable thing ever."

"Shut up," says Eddie, embarrassed. "Why do you have to be so damn pointy?"

"Pointy? Eds! You wound me!"

Things with Richie have always been like this— relaxed, that is. When they first met, Richie had stolen his inhaler and Eddie retaliated by ripping up one of his drawings. That'd been before all the magic stuff; before things became complicated with pesky things like _feelings_.

As a kid, Eddie was forbidden from playing any running games— or ball games, or contact games, or any game that involved moving and other people. Unfortunately, those were the only games anyone ever played at that age, so when Eddie couldn't participate, no matter how much he'd wanted to... The title 'loser' has haunted him ever since.

None of the children had liked Richie, either. He was too loud— too different— so it'd been only natural for the two to become friends. (Richie used to call it love at first sight. Sometimes he still does. Eddie had just been to glad to finally have a friend.)

_Us losers gotta stick together_ , Eddie would always think. Nothing his mother said or faces she pulled would ever convince him otherwise— and by Merlin did she pull a lot of faces. He'll never forget the way she'd looked when Richie came over for the first time. It'd been a strange mix of disgust and fear ... No surprise there, though. The Tozier's have always had a bit of a reputation in Derry ... A reputation of make-believe. They were like a family pulled right from a fantasy book. Eddie supposes he is too, now.

"Come on, we better go." He says this only to snap himself out of silly, childish memories. Sticking his legs out from beneath the covers and standing up, Eddie rushes to put Richie's glasses back on his face for him, who stares back with a pout. "Come _on_."

Richie only surrenders when Eddie starts taking the blankets away.

It takes them far too long to make it to the Great Hall, because Richie insists on arguing with any portraits they pass and doing impressions of all the teachers that walk by; his Slughorn one is annoyingly accurate. Eddie indulges him for a few minutes before running off without a word, laughing loudly as Richie struggles to catch up.

*

The following Saturday afternoon, Eddie finds himself out on the grounds, doing an essay for Herbology with Bev. Her auburn hair is a cloud around her concentrated face, and the whistling wind and scratching of two quills place them in a bubble of effortless delight. For a long while, they go back and forth about Muggle medicine and the way it differs from how wizards deal with disease, all while taking notes from textbooks and old articles about plants.

Eddie is half-blood but grew up like a Muggle, and both Beverly's parents are magic. With her mother being a Healer, and Eddie's being— well, like she is— they finish up rather quickly. Once they've read over each other's parchments, correcting little mistakes, Beverly waves her wand to float their belongings toward their respective school bags. Then, Eddie lies back and squints up at the sun. The sky is a vivid blue, and Scotland's September weather sends goosebumps along his arms. A memory of Sonia flickers to the front of his mind—

_staring directly at the sun will cause permanent blindness, Eddie-bear! come back inside for your mummy!_

—and he forces down a shudder. Beverly, perhaps noticing the abrupt tension in him and wishing to create a distraction, says, "I tried out for the Quidditch team yesterday."

Eddie wets his bottom lip and turns around, so he can stare up at her on his stomach. Beverly is chewing on a lock of frizzy hair, a pinch of worry in the soft lines along her face. "Really? Did you get in?"

Beverly shrugs in a way that's purposefully casual. Eddie narrows his eyes, curious. "Oh, I don't know yet ... Well, actually, Adrian said it was pretty likely I'd get Chaser, so maybe. He said it'd be official by Monday, though."

"That's great! You're great!"

"Not really," says Bev. Her freckly cheeks look red; either from the sun or Eddie's praise, he does not know. "What if my dad finds out? He's never let me even ride a broom, let alone play on a real team."

Eddie sighs. Beverly's relationship with her father is a complicated one. She despises him and everything he stands for, yet can't think of a life without him in it. Eddie has a pretty good idea what that's like— he wants so badly to leave Derry and never go back, but at the same time his entire being screams for even a crumb of his mother's approval. So, there isn't a perfect combination of words that could possibly ease Beverly's stress. Eddie knows this and reaches out to pull her into a hug, instead. The way she goes limp in his arms is enough of an answer to whether he'd responded right.

The two separate after half a minute, smiling softly. Eddie cherishes his friendship with Beverly as much as the night sky cherishes the stars; perhaps even more.

"So," he drawls carefully, sitting up fully to drop his head onto her shoulder. "Have you told Stan, yet?"

Beverly snorts in a distinctly unladylike way. Eddie briefly wonders what his mother would say. "Absolutely not. He'll regret ever letting me practice on his broomstick last year if he finds out I'll be on a rivalling team!"

Stan has been the Slytherin's seeker for three years running. Eddie had been quite surprised when he'd first found out, as Stan always seemed to show as much interest in the sport as him and Richie did—none at all. But Stan ended up becoming a sort of prodigy in their third year, and the Quidditch Cup has been in Slytherin's possession for a while now largely due to him joining the team, so Eddie's intuition was obviously a bit off.

There's a soft crunching of leaves behind them, and Eddie instinctively turns around to find the source of it. He catches the gaze of Mike, who's got a Muggle outfit on, and is walking closer to their spot by the Black Lake. Eddie raises a hand to wave and gets a handsome smile in return.

Mike drops onto his knees between them, along with a pile of library books that he'd been hiding under his arm. Eddie bites his lip and shuffles closer, leaning down to read, aloud, the titles of each book. "Moste Potente Potions, Book of Potions, Alchemy, Ancient Art and Science ... What're you doing reading these, Mikey?"

"Hold this," replies Mike, shoving a small pouch of quills and ink bottles in Bev's direction. "Professor Slughorn wants me to do an essay about the ingredients of a hypothetical elixir of life."

"What? Why? That doesn't sound like fifth-year work."

He shrugs and says, "Yeah, but it'll make my academic record look better if I do stuff like that. And plus, Professor Flitwick told me that it's unlikely Dippet will consider me for a teaching position after Hogwarts— cause I'm Muggleborn— unless my grades are better than the best. So. Yeah."

"Oh." Eddie falls silent. He doesn't really know what to say. "Is it at least interesting?"

Immediately, Mike's face lights up. His fingers are hooked onto the corner of one of the potions books as he opens his mouth to speak. "Very, actually. I've already read a lot about other people's theories on what the elixir would contain, and it's utterly mind-boggling to learn what some people believe are good ingredients to create eternal life! I mean, there was this witch who wrote that ..."

Half an hour later, Eddie is watching Beverly's receding back as she goes off to search for Ben, while Mike writes furiously onto a piece of paper; not even looking up when the Giant Squid breaks the lake's surface with an enormous tentacle.

Fishing his wand from its spot in his jumper sleeve, Eddie starts wordlessly practising some of the newest spells their professors have been teaching them. He can never get them right on the first try, like Richie, who seems to be great at everything without even a lick of effort. Eddie knows that Ravenclaw's are meant to be clever, but Richie is on a whole different level. He can Transfigure objects without even blinking, and has always been favoured by teachers, _despite_ everything else that comes with knowing Richie Tozier. Eddie secretly, deep, deep down, sort of admires that quality about him. Respects it, even. He always has. The fact that Richie can be loud and, at times, an asshole, but still be well-liked at the castle is just one of those things you can't help but admire.

Even deeper, though, Eddie can admit that he's happy it's not like that at home. If Richie wasn't a loser at Derry, he doubts they'd have become friends.

Mike taps the bone protruding from Eddie's wrist, gaining his attention. "D'you think Professor Dumbledore would let me ask him questions about Flamel? They know each other, right?"

"Flamel who?"

"Nicolas Flamel," says Mike, smiling now. Eddie blushes; having Flamel's first name told him nothing. "He's the founder of the Philosopher's Stone, Ed."

"Oh ... Well, you can only find out by asking, right? Come on, I'll come with. I have a question about the Transfiguration homework, anyway," says Eddie. He stands up, offering Mike a hand a moment later. They stroll through the grounds and up to the entrance to the castle, a comfortable quiet settling over them.

He met Mike in first-year. They were both at the top of Henry Bowers' list of victims, so it'd been easy to form a friendship through shared bullies, as sad as that sounds. There's always something freeing about spending time with Mike. Perhaps it's because they were the only ones of the losers with at least one Muggle parent, or perhaps it's because Mike values kindness as much as Eddie is naturally kind. Perhaps it's something else entirely.

Eddie's feet move on their own accord in the direction of Dumbledore's office, only stopping when they arrive outside the door. Mike raises a closed fist and knocks once, twice, thrice.

They are only left to wait about two seconds before the wooden door is swinging open to reveal Professor Dumbledore. The old man is wearing a set of crimson-coloured robes—

_you know what type of boys wear those kinds of colours, Eddie-bear? Dirty boys. Boys who like sinning with other boys_

—and his usual set of half-moon spectacles perched delicately atop his crooked nose. Eddie smiles a little awkwardly. He's never really liked Professor Dumbledore, but Richie's practically obsessed with the guy. "Good afternoon, Mr Kaspbrak, Mr Hanlon."

"Afternoon, Professor," says Mike. "How are you?"

"Ah, good, good. I was planning to pay an impromptu visit to Hogsmeade, but perhaps I'll wait for supper to eat. How are you, Mr Hanlon?"

"I'm just fine, sir," he replies, bopping his head. Eddie sways on the balls of his feet, feeling distinctly useless in the company of two smart wizards. "I did have a couple of questions, though, if that's alright? Academic, of course."

Dumbledore's eyebrows lifted barely noticeably. "Of course that's alright, Michael. Academic questions are what I'm here for, is it not?"

"Right." Mike chuckles. "Well, Professor Slughorn has assigned me an essay on ..."

Eddie tunes out. A lock of dirty blonde hair falls over his eyes, but he doesn't bother tucking it back into place. At Derry, he never would've dreamed about not being in a constant state of cleanliness. His mother always seems to like him more when he isn't dirtied up from playing in the barrens with Rich, or sweaty and red-faced from biking around town. But at Hogwarts, it's like Eddie gets a secret identity. He can be as messy as he wants without having to worry about hour-long lectures from Sonia, about the importance of keeping their reputation clean. He could kiss a boy—

_like Richie. You could kiss Richie. He would let you, too. He would let you kiss him_

—and not have to crumple with the fear of Sonia finding out. Because nobody cares here if you like boys or girls or both. The castle mirrors the world that all those dreamer-men whisper about in secret, where two boys could hold hands in public or go on dates like a regular couple. Hogwarts is a dream, and Eddie only stays for a couple of months of the year, but he still pities those that do not get the opportunity to come at all. It's not just the magic that makes Hogwarts special; it's the love, and Eddie loves it so much he could cry. This school is his home, and leaving in two years will just about break his heart.

_At least_ , Eddie reminds himself, _you'll only be leaving the castle. Not the people_. He'll still have Richie to cuddle and share jokes with, Beverly to rant to about things that don't seem important but are, and lovely Mike, who he only needs to sit with to start feeling better. Eddie will still have Bill and Stan, who aren't his best friends but are still such an important part of his life that they may as well be. And Ben— sweet Ben, who cherishes the little things in life in the same, rare way that Eddie does.

He'll still have them. And the bottom line, really, is that's all that matters. The castle's not his home, it's the friendships that he's made inside it. Something in his chest rights itself at this thought, and Eddie immediately feels good all over.

"Eddie?" a voice, Mike, chimes somewhere near his ear. He blinks out of his stupor and realises that both Dumbledore and Mike are staring at him, varying degrees of concern sewn into their faces. "You alright?"

"Just peachy," says Eddie, and it's true, for once.

*

Over the next two months, Eddie finds himself devoting more and more time to his friends. During the first Hogsmeade weekend, they spend the day roaming through shops and drinking so much Butterbeer that it has their belly's aching. That evening, after trudging back to the castle, he and Richie fall asleep in the Gryffindor common-room, legs so entwined he's couldn't say where he started and Rich ended. He felt as if he was going to burst from contentment and, as his eyes became heavy and limbs lazy, Eddie's mind conjured a sobering thought— _if this is living, I don't ever want to die_.

The next morning at breakfast, Richie has squeezed himself into the spot between Eddie and Bill at the Gryffindor table and is attempting to shove impossible amounts of marmalade-covered toast into his mouth. Eddie watches, half-impressed but mostly disgusted, before murmuring, "You're going to make yourself sick."

"Yeah, well," says Richie, grinning. He chugs down a few mouthfuls of pumpkin juice. "If you got off your high-horse for once, you could eat like a king, too."

Eddie grimaces. "You are so gross."

Richie reaches out and bops the end of Eddie's nose with a crumb-coated finger, dimples shining through as he does so. His blue eyes, somewhat hidden behind their thick-framed glasses, glint with something akin to fondness. "Ah, you love it, Eds! Now, what d'you say we spend our free period playing Gobstones? You can help me practice the new Voices I've been working on for the next Quidditch game. McGonagall chose me to commentate!"

"D-do you eh-even knu-know t-t-the r ... _rules_ of Quh-quidditch?" interrupted Billy, looking up from his plate of bacon and eggs.

"Well, sure," Richie replies. "It's all about beating balls, and I know all about that."

The tips of Eddie's ears burn bright red as he splutters, "Beep-beep, Richie!"

Richie just throws him a smirk and continues. "But seriously, Billiam, how hard can commentating a Quidditch match be? The snitch wins the game, a ball through the hoops give points ... What are those players who have the bats called? Actually, it doesn't matter. I was practically born for this shit! I'll be ace, just you watch."

There's no doubt in Eddie's mind that Richie will make a good commentator. He's a professional at talking usually, but when there's an audience ready to listen, Richie always ends up being even more entertaining. "You'll be brilliant."

When Richie smiles softly at Eddie in reply, he thinks again of last night. The way they'd laughed together at Honeydukes, and how nice it felt to fall asleep with Richie's snores trapping him in a comfort that he's never felt before.

Bill kicks his shin underneath the table, and Eddie is painfully reminded that these were not normal things to think about one's best friend. Perhaps Bill's crush theory does have some merit, after all ...

"I'm g-g-gonna head tuh-to c-clah-class now," says Bill abruptly, wiping away his milk moustache with the black sleeve of his robes. "Seh-see you!"

He's rushing out of the hall before Eddie can get out another word. Beside him, Richie stands as well.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm gonna say bye to Mike, and then we'll have the whole morning free. Don't you worry your pretty head, Spagheds. Just gimme a second."

Richie disappears for the Ravenclaw table. Eddie, finding himself suddenly alone, slouches down and tugs at a loose piece of skin, peeling it off. It leaves a pale red line on his finger, which reminds Eddie of his earliest displays of magic. He'd tripped over on the concrete and ended up with scratched knees, but they healed themselves over as soon as Sonia started yammering on about infections and going to the hospital. The next day, he'd told Rich about it, who had immediately concluded it was magic. ("Trust me, Eds, I know all about magic. I once made my dad fly," he'd explained with the sort of confidence only a seven-year-old had. "I can prove it, too. Sleepover at my house tonight, and you'll see my mom using her wand to cook!")

Eddie smiles at the memory.

"Up you get, Eddie Spaghetti!" Richie shouts, having appeared somewhere behind him.

He flinches, mostly from having a voice so close to his ear, and accidentally slaps an arm into Richie's chest."Shit, sorry! God, you scared me, you dick."

"Ah, is all all right, Eds," says Richie, rubbing at the area Eddie had hit with a tiny frown. "Now, get up, my little lad! We've gots much to do!"

*

By late November, Richie had managed to successfully bullshit his way through two Quidditch games, despite his obvious bias toward Ravenclaw and consistent lack of staying first-year-friendly. He'd been given a week of detention for saying fuck in front of the whole school, only to slip up again during the Slytherin versus Hufflepuff match. Eddie is surprised the teachers haven't just got rid of him, yet. Whenever he brings it up, Richie will flap his arms around in a gesture that nobody understands, and mutter something about being too charming and handsome to get dismissed as commentator.

On the last Friday of the month, Eddie darts down the steps to his dormitory to find a smattering of Gryffindor students waiting with drinks and food and other birthday-esque things. He's just turned fifteen-years-old and feels more gratitude bubble inside of him at that moment than there are clouds in the sky. Eddie ducks his head, cheeks flaming, and wants nothing more in the world to hug each of his friends for an eternity. So, he does.

There are bottles of Firewhiskey haphazardly lain around the room, as well as cakes and such that somebody must've gotten from the kitchens. He takes advantage of the food first; racing Beverly to the tables and grabbing one of everything— chocolate-coated strawberries, red-velvet flavoured cakes, and cookies galore. Then, Eddie peers over the heads of his fellow students to try and spot some of the losers as he pours a glass of vodka and orange juice for himself. He can see Stan's pretty curls in the corner, talking with a Hufflepuff girl, while Mike and Bill dance with some of the other Gryffindor's near the radio. Beverly taps his shoulder, gently, and asks if he'd like to come and dance, too. Eddie declines, Richie's face flashing through his mind, but encourages her to go and ask Ben, instead.

Eddie could not recall what happened in the next hour if he tried. He knows there have been a lot more drinks passed to him, and a lot of birthday wishes, until it got very fuzzy and, seemingly, unimportant. There's a vague memory of Ben with his shirt off, Beverly on his lap, and Stan yelling out a goodbye over the blaring music. Eddie waves, slightly delirious, moving his ass in the time with the tune, before feeling two large hands come and situate themselves over his hips. They were warm and tremendously inviting.

"Having a good birthday, Kaspbrak?" the voice mumbles right above his ear. Eddie bites down on his lips and turns around in the stranger's grip, coming face to face with a Slytherin of the name Peter Gordon.

He knows, on a superficial level, who Peter was. He hung around Bowers, had failed his O.W.L. year, and constantly made fun of the losers. But, in Eddie's drunken state, all this seemed trivial compared to the way his touch felt on top of Eddie's clothes. "I'm having a _great_ birthday."

"Bet you are, kid," says Peter, tucking a lock of Eddie's hair behind his ear for him. "You sober enough to fuck?"

"Oh, I don't know if—”

But whatever Eddie didn't know will never be known, as just as he went to finish his sentence, Peter was being manoeuvred away to make room for the lovely, lovely Richie Tozier. Richie's hair is combed back into a little tail at the nape of his neck, and their noses seem to be inordinately close. Realising this, they both stagger back at the same time, skin turning a matching pink. "Sorry, I'm late. Slughorn gave me detention for spilling my potion all over him. Happy birthday, by the way. The big five-oh.”

Eddie shakes his head. He doesn't care if Richie was late, he cares that he's here _now_. "I forgive you."

Richie reaches out and mimics Peter's action from only moments ago, by running a careful hand through Eddie's blonde hair. It seems nicer when he does it, though; intimate. He shivers slightly.

"You cold?" asks Rich, frowning. He goes to shake himself out of his jacket, but Eddie holds up a hand to stop him. "What is it, Eds? Are you okay?"

"I think I'm too drunk, Richie," he admits.

Immediately, Richie's look of concern melts into one of amusement. "You're kidding! How many drinks have you had?"

Eddie tries counting the number on his fingers but forgets he has a second hand and runs out. "Too many ... Way too many."

"I am going to combust, Eds. You're so _cute_."

He scrunches up his nose. Something— definitely not the alcohol— reminds him that he's not supposed to enjoy Richie's teasing. But, that's a lie. Eddie likes it a whole lot for somebody who acts like they don't. In fact, he loves it. He loves it so fucking much, but at the same time resents how it makes him feel; what it makes him think. Richie's teasing gives him hope, and that's dangerous. This thought is the first coherent one that Eddie has had in over an hour. "Don't ... do _not_ call me Eds, you turd."

Laughing, Richie says, "Oh, yeah? Why not? I thought it was your name."

"Because I like when you call me that," snaps Eddie, crossing his arms over his chest. "And I'm not supposed to like it. Those are the rules."

Richie's eyebrows climb up his face. Eddie's stomach dips. "You like it?"

"Uh-huh."

"What about the other nicknames? You like those, too?"

Eddie thinks of his past. It's Richie's past, too, really. Their lives have been so entwined together for such a time that it's impossible to think of a world without knowing one another. Their hands are clasped for _ever_. This doesn't scare him, for some reason, so he admits, "All of them. I like them all. Spaghetti ... My _love_ ... I even kinda like baby."

Abruptly, Richie's long fingers wrap around Eddie's wrist, expertly weaving him through the dwindling students and tables now filled with food scraps. They end up at the foot of the dormitory stairs. "You mean all that, Eddie? You best not be having a joke with me, now."

"'Course I mean it," he says. "Why would I lie about that? I never wanna lie to you."

This time, Eddie takes the hint and stumbles forward with Richie, rather than getting dragged by Richie. When they finally burst into Eddie's dorm— Bill and Adrian nowhere to be seen, thankfully— Eddie has sobered up just the barest amount. There's a distant voice screaming somewhere inside him, sounding suspiciously like his mother, that is telling him this is a bad idea. _But how could this ever be bad_? Eddie thinks. _How could_ Richie _be anything but good_?

Rich rummages through Eddie's bedside drawer and reveals a set of pyjamas. "Yowza, Eds, you still own these? Do they even fit?"

"Yes," says Eddie, a delicate blush dancing across his freckly cheeks. "They fit just fine. But I don't wanna wear them, 'cause I don't wanna sleep, yet."

"You've got to, baby," Richie replies brazenly, "We can't talk about this when you're drunk, so we'll talk about it in the morning, instead. Now, come here, and I can help you change. You're not nearly coordinated enough to do it on your own in this state."

Eddie pouts, "But you won't leave, right?"

Richie's back stiffens. His fingers, still tangled in Eddie's yellow pyjama shirt, squeeze themselves into a fist. "I have to Eds. I can't ... I won't be able to control myself now that I know."

"Know what?"

He steps toward Richie, the desire to be close becoming so overwhelming that Eddie starts to feel dizzy with it. "Know what, Rich? Say it out loud."

“I ...”

It's impossible to know who moves first. It might've been Richie, but Eddie was not even a half-second behind. Their lips touch only barely in the beginning, but then Eddie tugged Rich's hair out of its frizzy ponytail, and something changed between them. It became hot and desperate, skin against skin, and utterly perfect. They kiss for eons. And, as Eddie moves them to one of the beds to position himself onto Richie’s lap, he groans low and throatily.

Biting down on his lip, Richie slowly pulls away. A string of spit snapped between their swollen mouths.

They breathed in each other's air, both of their eyes dark with want. Richie's hands crept along the hem of Eddie's sweater, suggestive. "Can I?" he says. Eddie takes it off himself.

He touches all along Eddie's bare sides, pressing feather-light kisses in the nook of his neck. Richie caressed Eddie's soft stomach as if it was an artefact that deserved to be put on display.

Richie forces himself to slow down. He heaves Eddie flat onto the bed before moving between his thighs and sucking a mark into the tan skin below Eddie's belly button, seeming to savour the sounds that the act evoked. "Oh, Circe, Eddie. What do you want? What do you want me to do?"

"Everything," whines Eddie, tugging gently at Richie's scalp.

"No, you gotta tell me, Eds."

"I-I want you to touch me."

"Where?" he says.

"My cock! God, Rich."

Richie laughs into Eddie's belly. He lets him shimmy out of his grey trousers, uncovering his dick a beat later. Richie pauses at the sight of it— blue eyes glinting behind their glasses— and then licks a stripe of spit onto his hand and wraps it around the base. He starts slow, focussing on Eddie's little gasps and the rising flush on his chest. Richie, Eddie notices, starts rubbing himself off at some point, too.

Eddie doesn't last long. He finishes with a loud moan and sudden spurt onto Richie's palm, who falls against him, just as out-of-breath as Eddie is.

Jesus, he thinks. They really were two fucking teenagers.

"Ngk. We better clean up," murmurs Eddie, carefully moving Richie from on top of him. "Can you pass me my wand? Richie?"

At the lack of response, Eddie looks over. What he sees almost makes him cry, like honest to God sob like a baby, because Richie has fallen asleep. His mother's voice roars her disapproval in his mind—

_I told you, Eddie-bear. Dirty boys like that shouldn't be trusted with matters of the heart_

—and Eddie, shoulders shaking with feelings that have been building for a lifetime and more, dashes away a loose tear from his cheek.

(The dorm is silent when Eddie wakes up alone.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> le gasp!


	2. we’re only teenagers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie stares up at him. Richie's about half a head taller and is still growing each month. Sometimes he thinks Eds might've already reached his maximum height, but doesn't bring it up in fear of getting murdered.

_Remember the pact of our youth_

_where you go, I'm going, so jump and I'm jumping,_

_since there is no me without you_

\- David Le'aupepe

Eddie sits at the edge of his bed, anxieties whirling around in the cavernous corners of his mind. The moon casts a slice of light down the middle of the dorm from outside his window; somewhere, a bird chirps its last good night.

He pads across the room on unsteady feet, rubbing a hand down his face, as if to cure the headache that is starting to form there. Eddie steps inside the bathroom, and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The boy that stares back isn't recognisable— frizzy blonde hair, a barely-there hickey below his bellybutton, and lines sketched into the spot on his cheek that had spent the last half-hour making out with a pillow. Tears sting the corners of his eyes, but are unwilling to actually fall.

Once he's washed his face and brushed his teeth, Eddie changes into the set of pyjamas that Richie had picked out for him earlier. The Gryffindor tower can get cold during November, so he pulls on a pair of socks, as well. Then— and only then— does Eddie fold himself into Richie's sleeping arms. Where they touch is warm, but frightening.

Eddie drops his eyes closed, willing sleep to come. It does easily; dreams of tornados and Richie's broad, pale shoulders following him into unconsciousness.

*

Richie weaves through the stream of students with a sort of finesse that only an expert at being late to class can possess. There's a bad feeling curling its way through his gut, but Richie ignores it in favour of getting to the Ravenclaw tower before Mike notices he had slept somewhere else the previous night.

Memories of where he _had_ slept make their way through his mind in short, unwanted fragments. Spending the afternoon in Slughorn's classroom, cleaning the insides of cauldrons ... Running into Stan on his way to Gryffindor tower ... and, finally, how Eddie had tasted like cherry-wine and oranges on his tongue. Underneath his clothes, Richie's cock twitches.

He had woken at around eight o'clock, with Eddie's arm thrown haphazardly over his hip, and foot curled around his ankle. Soft puffs of air had dripped from Eddie's lips every few moments.

Now, Richie dashes up the spiral staircase leading to the Ravenclaw common-room, only stopping when he's at the entrance. For a moment, Richie stands hunched at the door, slightly breathless from the frantic running he'd done to get there. The inside of his mouth is painfully dry. Finally, he stands, and lifts the bronze knocker with his thin fingers, ready to answer whatever riddle it'll give him.

"If it's information you seek, come and see me," a musical voice says, "If it's pairs of letters you need, I have consecutively three. What am I?"

"A pain in my ass." Richie rolled his eyes. "Three pairs of letters? What does that even mean? Oh. Wait. Information you seek ... You're a bookkeeper, aren't you? That's actually rather clever."

"Thank you," replies the knocker, and the door swings open.

Richie heads straight for the dormitories, praying to Merlin that Mike hasn't gotten up yet— if he has, the morning will be filled with disappointed stares and pursed lips. Richie doesn't need that. He's already disappointed in himself, anyway.

The fifth-year boys dorm is blessedly quiet as Richie walks in. A kid called Paul Anderson sits on his bed by the window, leant over a book. On the opposite side of the room, Mike has his navy-blue curtains shut tightly around his own bed, which Richie takes as a good sign. "Hey. Is Mikey awake, yet?"

"Be quiet. Let me finish my page," shushes Anderson, not moving. Richie shuts up. "Now, Michael is not awake, which you would know if you ever bothered sleeping in your actual house's dormitories. Do you know what Professor Flitwick would say if he knew about your little nightly escapades? He'd give you detention, that's what. Do you _really_ want that on your record? This is our O.W.L. year, Richard. You can't be slacking off with the whole school's population."

"Clearly I can, considering I'm still getting better grades than you," says Richie. He grabs his school bag from the floor and unzips it to pull a box of Muggle cigarettes from inside. Catching the look on Anderson's face, he adds, "Don't you say a word."

"I won't!"

He leaves.

The walk to the Quidditch pitch is the least relaxing thing Richie has ever done. He keeps imagining how Eddie looks when he comes; how fluffy his hair had been.

Richie had always thought of Eddie as a pretty dude, and making Eddie laugh has been at the top of Richie's priority list since they met. But that doesn't mean he like-likes him. As kids, a lot of Derry's Muggle population would call them fags just for sitting beside each other in class. That kind of thing always hit Eds the worse, but Richie supposes any sort of insult will cut even the strongest person after awhile. Perhaps that's why he's never allowed himself to think of Eddie in a ... a ... romantic light.

With shaking hands, Richie uses the tip of his wand to light up one of the cigarettes. He brings it to the corner of his mouth, inhaling quickly, before breathing back out. His throat stings, slightly, in a good way. Eddie will be pissed if he finds out Richie is smoking again, but for now, nothing matters except Bill's words from that morning—

_B-but he wah-was d-d-d-drunk. Duh-doesn't th-that m-mean yuh-y-y ... you took ah-advantage o-of him?_

—and the fact that Bill was, for once, right.

Richie's mouth slips out a curse. He climbs up the Quidditch stands without much care and lands on his ass between the front two rows of seats. If Eddie were there, he'd probably be laughing.

"Fuck off," he says to nobody, for no reason in particular. Richie takes another drag from the cigarette. It has his lungs feeling warm, and his feelings less sharp.

On the field, he notices a group of tiny green dots getting ready to fly. The Slytherin Quidditch team often practices on Saturday mornings, but Richie hadn't expected them to in this weather. It'd been raining a half-hour earlier, and the only reason Richie hasn't already frozen to death is because his mother put a heating spell on his jumper before he left for the school year. Plus, some of the older students have been saying it's going to be the coldest Christmas of the decade.

He squints at a figure that might be Stan, or an entirely unrelated student. They've kicked up off the ground now, and the kid who Richie assumes is captain has started barking orders at everybody. It makes him glad not to be on the Ravenclaw team. Quidditch sucks.

Once he’s finished and crushed his cigarette with his foot, Richie leans back and stares up at the grey sky, thinking—

_I didn't take advantage of him, Billy. We both wanted to do it. And anyway, it was only some kissing and, well ..._

—about how this'll change his friendship with Eddie. Richie has witnessed almost all the losers in some state of undress, and nothing had changed between them. Although, he hadn't gone and fondled any of them as he had with Eddie.

"Am I a bad person?" asks Richie.

"Not to me. You are, however, a crazy person," says a familiar voice by his ear. Richie jumps, letting out a squeal, as Stanley Uris appears in front of him. "You were just talking to yourself, weren't you? You're a real weirdo, Tozier."

Richie scowls. "If anyone's a weirdo, it's you! Who the fuck sneaks up on a guy like that? And shouldn't you be, like, flying or whatever?"

Stan drops into the space beside him, and reveals a golden ball sitting in his palm. "Nobody ever notices when I catch the Snitch anymore, so I just stopped telling them. I doubt they'll realise if I miss one training session."

It's suffocatingly quiet as silence falls between them, like a weighted blanket. Richie wants to untangle himself from it, wants to run and do anything else except sit here. He'd rather attend the next Quidditch World Cup with his father than have a talk with Stanley about feelings. They're just not those kinds of friends— hardly any pair of pure-bloods are. He hesitates, before saying, " _Sooo_. Are you staying at the castle for Christmas?"

"No," replies Stan. The Snitch in his hand gives a sudden quiver, and lurches for the air. Stan catches it again, immediately. "I've invited Beverly to stay at the Manor, though. My mother thinks it'll be romantic."

"That's funny. You know, I actually can't imagine you dating anybody."

There's a pause. Stan pulls his knees up to his chest, and Richie marvels at how small he looks. "You can't imagine me dating _any_ one?"

"Well, it's not like I've really thought about it," Richie says. He realises he might've hit a nerve. "You want a cigarette?"

Stan declines, hair falling in uneven curls across his forehead. Richie purses his lips and grabs another cigarette for himself, which he lights and inhales in the same movement. "Your loss. They're Winstons."

"I don't know what that means."

Richie throws his head back and laughs; a real loud, throaty one. "It's a Muggle brand, Staniel."

"Oh."

*

It's not till Monday morning that Richie sees Eddie again. They've got a double lesson of Potions first thing, and he had slept through breakfast, so it's only luck that has him reaching the table behind Eddie before anyone else. Slughorn is rambling about antidotes for various venoms at the front of the classroom, which Richie takes as an opportunity to float a folded note toward Eddie—

_Want to ditch herbology after this ?_

He expects at least a glare and hastily written 'yes' in Eddie's curly scrawl but instead, Richie watches him read the bit of parchment, then flick it to the floor. Never one to give up, Richie grabs another paper and scribbles:

_You are being a BRAT. Why ? Should I ask Beverly to ditch, instead ?_

This time, Richie does get the glare he'd been desiring. Eddie looks only a fingertip away from committing homicide. Still, no response.

_Stop ignoring me !!_

He sends it over with a swish of his wand underneath the table.

Eddie stares down at the note for a long while. Slughorn has moved onto different types of snake venoms, a subject that Richie finds to be the utmost of unimportance. He marks down a few keys points before getting bored, and switches to watching the back of Eddie's fluffy head instead. That eventually gets boring, too. By that time, Richie has reached the number seven on his scale of boredom. He tries rearranging his textbooks in order of thickness, throwing dull quills at his table-mate, and going through an alphabetical list of all the spells he knows. Accio ... Aguamenti ... Alohomora ... It’s something his mother taught him to do whenever he’s feeling restless.

Finally, Eddie flies the note back to his desk. Richie reads it with an embarrassing amount of fervour.

_I'm trying to work. Please leave me alone_.

Richie frowns. That can't be right. Eddie's almost always down to skive off potions, especially theory lessons. Neither of them has any interest in the subject, and Mike is always willing to share his notes before exams and such. So, ignoring Eddie's wish, Richie flips the paper over and writes:

_Are you OK? What happened?_

He chews on his fingernails as he waits. Beverly is sitting a table over, and sends him a look of disgust. Richie sticks his tongue out at her. Under the desk, his foot bounces.

"For the second half of our lesson, I'd like for us to come up with some Wit-sharpening potions. I doubt the Ravenclaws will ever have a need for it, of course ..." Slughorn chuckles to himself. Richie groans into his hands. "Well, what are you all waiting for? Partner up and fetch your ingredients! If I remember correctly, the recipe for this potion is on page fifty-nine of your books."

Most people end up pairing with the person beside them. Richie partners with Beverly, who he immediately ignores in favour of sneaking up behind Eddie near the ingredients cupboard. He's bent over, trying to reach the Ginger Root that is squished into the very back. It's a lovely sight. "You need some help, Spagheds?"

Their elbows knock together as Eddie flinches away from him. Richie sucks in a breath. "Fuck off, Tozier. I already told you I was—"

"Yes, but as your self-proclaimed best friend, your little note only made me worried. So, what happened? Did your ol' ma write to you? If she's in a bad mood, it's probably 'cause I've not visited for a while."

Eddie stares up at him. Richie's about half a head taller and is still growing each month. Sometimes he thinks Eds might've already reached his maximum height, but doesn't bring it up in fear of getting murdered. "Beep-beep, Trashmouth. Just because you don't want ... I know that you ... Ugh. If you really wanna pretend it didn't happen, fine. But you can't corner me during potions and call yourself my best friend when _we_ —" his voice cracks. Richie's hand twitches at his side. "I just want you to leave me alone. For now. Maybe we can talk, later."

Richie thinks he's got a pretty good idea of what Eddie is talking about. Guilt makes his face whiten and his eyes blink faster than usual. Bill's voice echoes in his head; _You took advantage of him._

"I would love to talk later. After class?" he says shuffling his feet. Eddie gives him a timid smile, nodding, then rushes off in Bill’s direction to start on their potion. Richie bites down on his lip hard enough to bleed.

The following half-hour is agonising for Richie. He watches Eddie and Bill from across the room, heads ducked beside his each other as they whispered about things that only Gryffindors understood. Richie can remember the first time he'd met Bill— they walked into each other (literally) on the train in first year, and while Eddie apologised for the both of them, Richie had found Bill's stutter to be absolutely phenomenal and promptly started mocking it. It was the butt of many of his jokes those first few months, until Eddie blew up on him and said that, while Bill may not show it, he was actually very insecure. Richie never fun of Denbrough, again.

He wants to, now. Eddie's cheeks might only be flushing their signature pink from the potion fumes, but Richie still manages to trick himself into thinking it's because of the pretty words that Billy is whispering into Eds' ear, words that can blossom flowers in somebody's heart without even trying. Richie could never be that sort of romantic for Eddie. He's too rough around the edges— too blunt. If he thinks Eddie is beautiful, which he does, Richie would just tell him so. He _has_ told him so.

But Eddie is a little like an angel. He could look at a light and see sunshine, where other’s would only find it blinding. Because of this, so many of the Muggles at Derry had thought of Eddie as a freak; a girly-boy. Yet despite the bullying, he had never shied away from those parts of himself. But Richie grew up despising everything that made him unique— it had only been when Eddie came along that he was inspired to channel those feelings into stuff like Voices and jokes. When all Richie had wanted was to escape the awful ordeal of growing up, it’d been Eddie who grounded him. He’s a poem come to life. Richie isn’t worthy.

By the end of the lesson, Richie's stomach is churning with nerves and What-if's. He's packing up his belongings, glancing up at Eddie (waiting near the door as the rest of the class files out) every so often, when Slughorn shimmies his way to Richie's desk and says, "Ah, Richard. Do you have time for a little chat before lunch?"

"Not really, sir," replies Richie, moving quicker. Eddie's foot starts tapping impatiently. "Perhaps another time?"

Slughorn laughs like it's a joke. Richie has never wanted to strangle a man more. "Ah, not so fast. I promise to be quick. Unless you and ..." he waves a hand towards Eddie. "Mr Kaspbrak already have plans?"

Eddie can hear them. Richie knows, because once Slughorn trails off, Eddie's left eyebrow twitches up as if to say _Good question._ Do _we have plans, Richard?_

"You said you would be quick?"

There's a hurt sound by the door. Richie blinks, and Eddie is gone. He represses the urge to puke on Slughorn's robes.

"Yes, yes, of course," says Slughorn, "I've been meaning to bring it up for a few days, actually."

Over the years, Professor Slughorn has wanted to talk to Richie about plenty of things— his dad, mostly, as well as the chances of him ever joining the Slug-Club. Stan and Mike are in the group already, but Richie has never felt any desire to hang around with a bunch of snobs each Friday and listen to them brag about their wealthy families and such for hours. Mike reckons it's a good way to make connections, while Stan is just in it to keep his parents off his back. ("The Slug-Club is a group for elitist pricks who think they're superior because their ancestors happened to have participated in an infinite range of incestuous activities over the years," Stan had explained once, before promptly laughing himself to tears. "You're lucky if you're not part of it!")

"Oh?" Richie tilts his head in pretend curiosity. "What about, Professor?"

"Well, Richard, I'll be hosting my annual Christmas party soon, and I'd love for you are your little friends to come along. I've invited some very interesting characters this year, too."

Richie fakes a grimace. "Unfortunately, I'll be spending Christmas break with my parents." And Eddie, he thinks.

Slughorn sighs, a sad glint coming into his eyes. "Ah, such a shame, Mr Tozier! Well, at the very least think about it."

He nods. Slughorn gestures absently at him, which Richie takes as his cue to go. He rushes off through the dungeons, hoping to catch up with Eddie, but he's long gone. They don't end up talking.

*

In the following few days, there is a visible shift in the group's dynamic. Richie stops visiting the Gryffindor tower at night and stays glued to the Ravenclaw table during meal-times, so it's only in class that he sees Bev, Bill and Eddie. Stan has never been particularly close to any of them, but there's always been an unspoken agreement of who he would side with in a fight— Richie and Mike. Ben does his best to play Switzerland; splitting his time by spending breakfast with the Gryffindors, lunch with his own house (the Hufflepuffs), and dinner with Ravenclaw.

He figures Bill told everyone what had happened, which is why nobody brings it up. Richie is slightly grateful for this. He has no interest in talking about it, as there's just something far too sick about it all. Richie has never been a particularly moral guy, but he crossed a line that night by messing around with a kid that wasn't sober enough to consent, let alone confess some epic love for his best friend.

A few nights before the Christmas holidays, Richie has a dream that causes sweat to roll down his face and his vision to go a little blurry with tears. He'd been chained down in front of the Wizengamot— "It's the magical world's version of a jury," he remembers his mother once explaining— and they'd been pointing and laughing at his struggle, until Richie finally looked down and saw that his hands had claws and were far too furry to be human. The word werewolf was whispered into his veins, before fear woke him up with a muffled scream into the mattress.

At breakfast the next day, Richie is forced to ignore Mike's worried face, and Ben's quiet murmur of, "You been sleeping alright?" He'd seen how shit he looked in the mirror that morning and wished everybody would stop mentioning it. If Eddie had been talking to him, the topic would've been settled in a matter of minutes. Richie can imagine how it'd have gone down perfectly—

Eddie: You look like crap. Are you okay?

Richie: Sure am, ol' chap. Just was up late wanking off to your ma!

—and grins into his muesli. Only Merlin could know how much Richie misses Eddie.

Professor McGonagall passes their table with a quick inquiry on whether they'll be staying at the castle for Christmas. Richie glances at her list, sees Eddie's pretty cursive (sometimes, he dots his i's with a little heart. It's sickening), and makes a decision that could make everything ten times worse, or fix all their problems. Richie really hopes for the latter.

"I'll be staying, mam," says Richie in his politest tone. McGonagall purses her lips and hands over the parchment. "Alrighty, then."

Across the table, Stan's eyebrow is climbing higher and higher. Richie grins at him, pulls out a quill and ink bottle from his bag, scribbles 'Richard. T' onto the paper, and then passes it back to McGonagall. She walks away without another word. Mike chews carefully on his eggs before saying, "Why didn't you tell us you were gonna stay at the castle?"

"Probably because he didn't know," remarks Stan, rolling his eyes.

"I'm sure that's not true," Mike replies. "Richie, if you'd told me earlier, I could've arranged with my father to let me stay and keep you company. He doesn't need all that much help with the farm, and nobody should be alone for Christmas."

Richie chugs down some orange juice. He stares at the dregs for a moment. "I won't be alone. Eds is staying, too."

There's a beat. Richie's shoulders roll inward, and last night's dream flashes through his mind. Stan sighs. "Relax, Tozier. If this is you trying to fix things with the losers, then I bid you good luck. Just don't expect any help. It's not our fault everything got all fucked up ..."

"Oh, _really_?" says Mike.

Unexpectedly, Stan ducks his head and, Richie swears, blushes. He files the moment away for later— it's still too early in the morning to analyse the reasons for a flustered Stanley Uris.

"Can we please focus on the task at hand?" Richie asks, pushing his newly empty plate away from him. "I say we call it the get-Eds-to-forgive-me-because-I-miss-him-real-bad-operation."

"Or we could try something shorter," offers Mike. He laughs. "How about ... Richie stops moping and gets back together with Eddie by just apologising like a normal person."

Stan says, "That's just as long!" at the same time Richie mumbles, " _Operation_. You gotta say operation!"

*

Later that day, after Richie had dozed off in Muggle Studies and skipped Transfiguration altogether, he finds himself out on the grounds, watching Eddie and Bev from afar. The two are in their usual spot beneath the tree near the Great Lake, talking about things Richie couldn't hear.

Eddie is leant forward on his elbows, staring up at Beverly speak with almost childlike awe. His legs move up and down in the air.

Sometimes, Richie thinks nobody ever bothered teaching Eddie how to sit. He's always perched on his knees rather than his ass, or has his legs sprawled out in front of him. In chairs, his feet rarely are on the ground. Richie has always found it endearing, but realises now why he had never brought it up. The way your platonic best friend sits isn't something most people notice— or perhaps they do, but they definitely don't try making a conversation out of it. Richie is content enough to simply watch, though.

Ben plops down beside him. From the corner of his eye, Richie can see he's wearing an oversized green sweater, with trousers that are probably too tight in the hips, as Benny keeps squirming and adjusting his belt. "Hey-o."

"Haystack," says Richie, pretending that he'd been reading Mike's copy of the latest Daily Prophet laid out on the grass, rather than spying on Eddie. "How're you?"

"Alright." Ben flicks some sandy hair from his face. It's darker than Eddie's own blonde. "I heard you were staying at the castle for Christmas?"

Richie shrugs. He'd written a letter to his parents during lunch, and sent it off immediately, but is yet to get a reply. His parents are unlikely to be truly mad at him; Wentworth, Richie's dad, will probably think it's another teenager-thing, and his mother will just take it as an opportunity to have all her important pure-blood friends come to visit. More than usual, anyway. She usually has them over less when he's home.

The letter had been short, and sweet—

_Dear Mom and Dad,_

_I'm going to stay at Hogwarts over winter break. Professor Slughorn has invited me to his Christmas party and promised for lots of COOL people to be there. Jealous?_

_Love, your son. R x_

_P.S. Can you owl me some Galleons for gifts?_

(Richie had spent his monthly allowance already, on the school's last Hogsmeade visit. The new Chocolate Frog cards in his collection were well worth it.)

Ben says, "I guess that means you'll be spending Christmas with Eddie. Lucky you. I'll be stuck with my mom for two weeks."

He considers telling Ben off. Mrs Hanscom isn't so bad; she certainly has nothing on Eds' mother, who has been shitty for years now. Eddie hardly even complains about it, except for the occasional comment of feeling suffocated at times. Richie has tried bringing it up himself, but all that ever accomplishes is Eddie banning him from the Gryffindor common-room for a day or two. All the losers are terrible at having proper heart-to-hearts. Frankly, it's a real flaw in their group. Richie rips out a handful of grass, absently, and gets distracted thinking about what all their superhero strengths and weaknesses would be.

A pretty laugh returns him to reality. Eddie has his head thrown back, giggling, while Beverly does a weird thing with her hands. Richie guesses it's a sort of impression. "What do you think they're talking about?"

Ben doesn't respond immediately. Richie is planning to repeat his question, when: "It doesn't really matter. I just want her to be happy."

"Her?"

"Yeah," says Ben, scratching the back of his pink neck. Richie tilts his head, bemused. "I’m in love with Bev."

He blows out a breath that’s visible in the chilly air. Richie jerks back slightly. “Hang on, _love_? How could you even know that? We’re only teenagers.”

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” asks Ben, leaning back to stare at the gloomy sky. Lately, Richie has been considering the likelihood of whether the sky is mirroring his mood— melancholy ... depressing ... He knows he’d be called a narcissist if he ever brought it up. “I’m almost always thinking of her, and whenever she’s around I get all nervous and fumble with my words. Sometimes I’m so full of my own emotions, I lose my appetite and can’t sleep. Things like that are how I know that I love her.”

Richie bites down on his lip. Eddie has started trying to copy Beverly’s wand movements to conjure a flock of butterflies. There’s a line of frustration between his caterpillar brows. “Is it scary? Being in love?”

“Of course it is. I’m hardly worthy of her. But, she’s told me the same, you know? She thinks I’m out of her league. Can you believe that? Maybe that’s just what love is, though. Feeling inadequate, but still doing your best anyway; putting in the work no matter what. That’s what I think.”

“ _I_ think you’ve been reading too many romance novels, Haystack,” Richie remarks. He grabs his last cigarette from his robe pocket, and Ben lights it for him. “Thanks.”

A cloud of blue smoke moves up between them. Richie relishes in the burn, and the way Eddie looks over when he notices who’s smoking. Only two weeks ago, it would’ve gotten him a lecture on health and lung cancer. Now, all Richie receives is a small, almost disappointed frown, before Eddie is focusing on Beverly again.

Ben stands up beside him, brushing away invisible dust from his pants. “I gotta go. See you at dinner?”

“Sure. Stay cool, Hanscom.”

“Always!” his receding back shouts.

Richie finishes the cigarette in a little under five minutes. The sky starts a light sprinkle on them, so everybody gets up to head indoors. He trails slowly behind a group of first-year Hufflepuffs that giggle at all the portraits they pass.

The journey back to Ravenclaw tower gives Richie time to think. His desire to fix things with Eddie has turned into a _need_ in the last few hours, so it’s incredibly important that he doesn’t mess up over Christmas. If Stan hadn’t said he wasn’t going to help, Richie would’ve already gone to him and asked for help to make a plan. He has to do this alone, though.

Richie decides on a three-step-plan to return things back to normal. He calls it Project Apology in his head.

First— he will need to approach Eddie very casually in the upcoming days, specifically to bring up how they’re both staying for Christmas. It’ll be like the first domino. It will help to reopen their friendship and such.

Secondly— buy Eddie a present that surpasses all the gifts Richie has gotten him in previous years. It needs to be special, personal, expensive, and _awesome_. He’ll beg Ben to help him out with that one.

And, finally— invite Eddie to be his plus-one for the Slughorn party. It’s being held Christmas evening, so Richie will need to ask sometime in the morning. He figures it’ll kill two birds with one stone as well; get Professor Slughorn off his back, and fix things with Eds all in one day. Richie is sure it’s full-proof.

(He could not be more wrong.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof


End file.
